


Nothing Lasts Forever, But This Is Gonna Take Me Down

by mythbusterposey



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Previously in: MFU KM, i guess?, idk part of me wants to continue this from where i ended in the MFU KM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 14:44:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4880812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythbusterposey/pseuds/mythbusterposey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the MFU kink meme prompt:<br/>"International cooperation turns out to be a pipe dream and the KGB takes Illya out of UNCLE.<br/>Napoleon runs into Illya every now and then, and they have rough, quick shags when they manage to escape their new partners. The thing is they never realized they would miss each other so much."</p><p>Title taken from Wildest Dreams by Taylor Swift</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Lasts Forever, But This Is Gonna Take Me Down

_Belarus_  
  
“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.” Napoleon says, lounged out on the hotel bed he’d otherwise be disgusted with, had he not been fucked into oblivion just minutes before.  
  
“You say this every time.” Illya says, not looking as he tugs his clothes back on with halted movements, as if his mind and memory are slowly coming back to him piece by piece. His shirt is here, that is Napoleon’s left shoe, Napoleon has a tattoo on his left ankle. Napoleon’s eyes are blue like the sky peeking through the trees of a forest in the wintertime, bright and brilliant and cold.  
  
“It doesn’t make it any more untrue.” a shift in the American’s voice makes Illya look up at him. An inquisitive look, too subtle for anyone but those that know him, reaches Illya’s eyes but Napoleon offers no other explanation.  
  
For whatever reason this makes Illya’s blood run cold, a tightness blooming in throat and an ache spreading in his chest. He clears his throat so he sounds normal when he says, “I’m sure we could find other places to escape to.” But of course, it comes out all wrong, and he scowls at his own vulnerable tone. They knew this couldn’t last forever.  
  
Napoleon sits up. “I’m sure your handler, and your new partner, wouldn’t take kindly to this situation, should they--”  
  
“They will not know.” he interrupts hotly, losing some of his delicate composure in the midst of this. Anger blooms through his head, though he doesn’t know why. “I must go, anyway.” he says roughly. He doesn’t see the way Napoleon’s kiss-bruised lips downturn slightly as he turns away with finality.  
  
They always leave without a goodbye.

* * *

_France_  
  
When Napoleon sees a familiar head of blonde hair poking out over the top of the crowd while in Paris, the regular coterie of relief (he’s still alive), disappointment (he’s still so far from me), and anticipation (tonight will be fun) run through his head at a dizzying speed. He almost misses whatever Hammond is blabbering on about. He turns a look of mild disgust downward at his new partner, a short Scottish man, former MI5, with a nasally voice and a rather ignorant taste in clothing. Hammond has flakes of croissant and chocolate all over his tie, and Napoleon’s eye twitches because it’s been there for the last ten minutes and they haven’t been near a mirror in over an hour. When he looks back, the Russian has disappeared through the crowds, but the distinct smell of leather aftershave and the miniscule weight of a folded paper in his pocket remind him that he was there.  
  
He waits until he’s in private to open the message. In Illya’s proper scribble, there’s an address, that Napoleon realizes is not near any of the districts that are home to the few seedy hotels he knows in Paris, but rather, on the outskirts of the city. Maybe his advice was taken, and he’d found an atypical place for their usual encounters.  
  
He makes the typical excuse to Hammond, however, that he’s going to go trail a lead, and he may be gone all night. He shakes Hammond off his tail around dinnertime, presumably for that very reason.  
  
The address he’d been slipped leads to a quiet tree-lined rue that reminds him of stateside, complete with a welcoming atmosphere. Or maybe that was the excitement of getting to see Illya again. The ache in his chest that had bloomed when he’d been left last time in Minsk hadn’t ceased as quickly as other times. At least it wasn’t like the the time immediately after Illya had been taken--returned to the KGB, where their intended heartfelt reunion ended with Napoleon throwing a plate and Illya slamming a door so hard the hinges were permanently damaged and Napoleon had to leave through the window.  
  
The address is a small cottage at the end of a narrow pathway of green-gray cobblestones, just wide enough to be comfortable for a man of Napoleon’s size. Size and quality have been something thrown to the wayside in terms of the amenities of their _rendez-vous_.  
  
The door is predictably unlocked, not that the basic Mortise cylinder would have proven any difficulty to the average thief. He locks it once he’s inside, looking around.  
  
The inside of the cottage is painted a dull muted blue, something drab in artificial lighting, but classic looking in dim light, and most likely stunning in the late afternoon. Napoleon knows Illya’s favorite color is blue, despite being the Red Peril, and the interior decór is to his tastes: minimal, unassuming, and functional. A small kitchenette that would normally remain unused in these circumstances is lit from above, a white sconce frosted to look like the seaside illuminating the hunched shoulders of the Russian man who was just picking up his utensils again, his Soviet sidearm going back down to rest on the countertop, away from the vegetables. “Have you eaten?” is the only greeting Napoleon gets.  
  
“I have not. Are you cooking for two, Peril?” He asks, removing his jacket to hang it up on the rack.  
  
Illya merely grunts in response. There’s enough for five men, but naturally, both of their appetites are larger than other men of their age, so it does in fact seem enough for the both of them. Illya points at a few steaks on the table that are resting. It smells amazing, despite the basic meal Illya prefers to the lavishness of Napoleon’s usual fare. It brings a small smile quirking up on the side of Napoleon’s mouth.  
  
It occurs to him that they’ve never done this before. This kind of domesticity was familiar when they were holed up in a suite together when it was the three of them on a mission, but now that Illya is reporting back to Moscow, Napoleon thought they wouldn’t be able to do this anymore, ever. He opens a bottle of wine Illya had picked out as well.  
  
“How did you hide groceries from your partner?”  
  
“Mission without partner.” he responds, taking a glass when offered. Napoleon remembers Gaby moaning over the fact that Illya is “so greatly opposed to drinking”, when in fact he can just barely out-drink Napoleon, as proved in Mexico a few weeks after the Vinciguerra affair.  
  
“A _solo_ mission, perhaps?” Napoleon says over the rim of his glass, smirking into the lip. Illya scoffs, but offers no scathing remark.  
  
Their eyes meet. It’s almost so bittersweet they have to wince. “The only thing missing is Gaby, hm?”  
  
“This is true.” The silence holds for a moment longer, but the longing lasts a lifetime.  
  
Dinner is a quiet little affair, and Napoleon washes the dishes with his sleeves rolled up his muscled forearms, skilled hands submerged in soapy water. Illya sips wine and watches quietly. The lights flicker a bit, causing them both to look up at the seascape on the ceiling. It stabilizes and they look back at one another. Illya had put down his wine, and was giving him a look that they both knew they only had a limited time with one another.  
  
Napoleon hoped against hope they didn’t have to.

* * *

_England_  
  
Napoleon doesn’t note these meetings in any of his incident reports. Waverly gives him looks of knowingness and Gaby gives him looks of pity and it’s infuriating to know that they know. So he takes a few days to right himself. But their last meeting in Paris had thrown him off a bit. He cries into Gaby’s shoulder in a moment of drunken weakness after asking her over for dinner one night and she speaks the words he’d never dared to speak aloud, though he’d thought on them multiple times in the last two long years.  
  
“I miss him, too.”

* * *

_New York_  
  
It’s a long time between meetings after that, too long, and Napoleon wakes up to his heart hammering in his chest too many nights, thinking he’ll get an international incident report naming Illya dead or worse. He knows they both know fates worse than death.

* * *

_England_  
  
“We knew this would happen from the start, Agent Solo.” Waverly tries to console him one day after a debriefing on another mission without a Russian sighting.  
  
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.” Napoleon says, attempting to recover his cool he’d nearly lost.  
  
Waverly gives him a tight-lipped look. “The Russians as a whole are incredibly paranoid, and wouldn’t leave their best line dangling in the water for long, so to speak.” Napoleon doesn’t want to hear this, but he continues anyway. “Agent Kuryakin’s loyalties were first and foremost up to his own choosing. We did offer him the choice of staying with us, as you must surely know.”  
  
Now that was something he didn’t know about. Napoleon shifts uncomfortably, attempting to give nothing away, as normal.  
  
“However, he was convinced that the KGB only needed him for a few missions, and...indeed, we were deceived.” The chair creaks under the pressure Solo’s hands are pressing into it. Waverly’s eyes follow it. “Ah, so I do believe you didn’t know this.”  
  
“No, sir.” He bites out tightly. The ache in his chest is rearing its ugly head. Illya’s name is pounding against his ears and the sides of his skull.  
  
“Well then, I think it’s time I share a spot of distressing news…”  
  
And the ground falls away beneath Napoleon's feet.


End file.
